Page 3 of Controlled

It was strange to think about the past now, something I’d fought hard not to do over the years. All three of us had. I hadn’t even stepped foot on the hunting grounds in well over eight years, if not longer. But now? It was all I’d been able to think about as of late.

The adrenaline rush was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, a high few people ever understood. It was better than any risky adventure. Better than drugs and certainly more satisfying than sex.

I could almost taste blood, the desire was so strong. Maybe I would plan a hunt for the future. Perhaps I could convince my brothers to participate in one if for no other reason than old time’s sake. I even had the duffle full of medieval weapons our father had amassed safely secured in a hidden location inside my estate.

Back to reality. I could fantasize all I wanted when business here had been concluded.

I took a deep breath as the man I was holding struggled, eyeing the old building that I’d actually taken a liking to. If only we could save the old bones, bricks and mortar that had been around since the late nineteen hundreds. It wasn’t feasible and the foundation would keep many secrets for years to come.

“Please, Mr. Saint. I didn’t do anything.”

I did so loathe men who cried like babies, lying through their swollen lips about the most obvious situation there could be. The idiot had been caught on camera with his two buddies attempting to make a side sale of several stolen pallets of weapons and ammunition to the kind of third world country even we refused to sell to.

And for an exploited price, enough money so the three stooges could live comfortably on some tropical island for the rest of their lives. Or until the country they’d sold the shit to blew up the entire freaking world. That wasn’t the Saint objective. Not at all. We enjoyed life. We reveled in our power and influence, the wealth that had allowed us to afford all the tasty goodies and toys we’d amassed over the years.

Even Styx, while turning more… reputable in his life’s endeavors, enjoyed the peace of mind our hefty bank accounts provided given his growing family. Who knew one of the Saint boys could enjoy living a decent, humanitarian life while thriving on procreating. It had been something we’d promised collectively against after our father’s demise. No more kids.

Oh, well. Things had changed. Not for me.

I was the most ruthless and savage of the three, which was why I was the Don of the Saint Empire. We were very much like every other crime syndicate, only I liked to think of us as far more intelligent in our choices and in acquiring opportunities.

“Paul. You’re a fucking asshole and not just a liar if you expect me to believe that bullshit.” I couldn’t help myself, backhanding the shackled man. The force pitched him to the ground, his whimpers turning into full blown sobs. I motioned to one of my half dozen soldiers, who stomped forward, both righting the jerk’s body while pulling out his small iPad.

“Please. Please.” Paul continued to whine like a baby.

“Take a look, my friend. You tell me what you see.” I stood back while my soldier hit play, allowing the man I was staring at to watch in dark yet vivid color the exchange he made with the dangerous Iranian. Paul’s surprise turned into panic.

“He made us do it, Mr. Saint,” Jimmy said from his position behind me. Both he and Wally, the third accomplice, were tied to very uncomfortable chairs, waiting their turns to be executed. I did so enjoy tormenting them. If I had more time on my hands, I would take them for a nice, long hunt. Sadly, I had a meeting to go to prior to Styx and his lovely wife arriving in town.

I’d somehow been wrangled into accompanying them as well as my younger brother Easton who was making a rare appearance out of his scholarly world to attend the ballet. Or maybe this one was modern dance. Hell if I knew or cared. I didn’t have the affection for the arts like Styx had developed.

“He made you,” I repeated.

“That ain’t true. You knew the money would solve all our problems,” Paul huffed, managing to find enough spit in his body to hurl a string at his former best friend.

“Shut the fuck up,” Wally bellowed. “We ain’t to blame.”

“You don’t understand,” Paul said to me. His entire body was shaking but he managed to turn his head toward Wally. “The two of you know why we did it. Shut up. Just fucking shut up!”

I allowed them to argue for a few seconds longer, my soldier grinning from amusement. “Enough!” My voice echoed in the open space. Fortunately for them, they shut the fuck up. “I think you’ve seen enough.” I grabbed Paul by the hair again, lifting him slightly off his knees. Fear turned into terror, the kind that couldn’t be faked.

God, I did so love my job.

I was panting in anticipation. The stench of terror mixed with the stink of sweat. It was a smell some would find disgusting. For me, it was one of the sweetest fragrances in the world.

“Well, boys. You fucked up. That’s all I’m going to say. Now, I have a tough decision to make. I could allow you to live and skip town, never to be seen again. Or… I can provide punishment, which will possibly save your souls. Goodness.” I did so love being dramatic.

“Please, Mr. Saint. We’ll do anything you ask. Anything.” Paul was still hopeful. I had to give it to the human spirit. People wanted to live.

“Maybe…” I glanced from one soldier to another, finally winking at the one standing next to an old-fashioned boom box. It was a priceless toy I’d kept with me since I was a boy, perhaps the only thing I’d coveted from that period of time in my life.

Unless you could consider my training during my youth something worthwhile.

As the soldier turned on the very loud yet soothing classical music, I slipped my hand into my pocket, grabbing my large hunting knife. It was my favorite, although I had several weapons I enjoyed using.

It depended on the situation or the time I had.

Granted, I was the only person who thought the Gothic Viking music was peaceful, but I did, craving the darkness it offered as well as the freedom. Maybe to me it was spiritual in a sense, the only kind of religion that had been allowed inside my house. Those who knew of my savage reputation called me the Maestro, some believing I pranced around the burial grounds near my estate naked with war paint on my face. Little did those spreading the gossip know how close to the truth they’d actually come.

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